| | All this talk through a shaft
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were attractive my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends gone by the board, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped desire stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Wish in the propriety place, you said, is upon misplaced
or no hope at all. But I say, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades representing the prize as patsy of our whilom war.
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